Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

the Armory Antiques sale on closing day hoarding genuine ottomans from the Ottoman Empire. Do you have children, Julia?”

“Thousands.”

“You’re an Auntie Mame?”

“Auntie Mirth.” Julia grinned.

“I had a son and a daughter. Loved them both dearly. Did you have a best friend?”

“I did.”

“That’s what it’s like to have a daughter. In case you ever wonder.”

“I’m traditional, Dottie. But I never wanted traditional things.”

“Well, I wasn’t traditional so I surrounded myself with all manner of tradition. I thought it meant things mattered. Now I know they don’t. Not even the bestseller list.”

“Dottie arrived here shortly after she found out she was number two on the Times bestseller list.”

“Well that sucks.” Julia cut another square of Dottie’s cornbread and ate it.

“I knew you’d understand. Number two! After all that! I mean I’m happy for the Crawdad lady, it was her first number one, you know, so I’d like to think I’m generous about it and happy for a fellow author.”

“Only she had been number one for weeks. Months. Maybe a couple years.”

“I know! Couldn’t she just move aside for ten minutes and let me be number one? I mean, if she knew that I was coming here, I bet she would’ve called the warehouses and said, ‘Hold the crates!’”

“Would you have called the warehouse if you were in her position?” Pat asked Dottie.

“Never.”

“So there’s your answer. What’s so great about being number one?” Julia asked.

“I wouldn’t know.” Dottie laughed.

“You’re about to find out. Dottie, you win. Your cornbread is the best,” Julia announced. “It’s number one.”

“It is?”

“Simple. Tasty. Not too dry. Not too sweet. The can of creamed corn is blended just right.”

“Thank you. You know, cornbread was a staple in my home and I got a lot of practice. And to be honest, if you add a can of creamed corn to the Jiffy box mix, it’s mighty close to scratch.”

“How was mine?” Pat asked.

“The creamed corn killed it. Too much going on and that’s from a girl who likes too much going on.”

“Creamed corn doesn’t work with every recipe,” Dottie said breezily. “I’m sorry, Pat.”

“I’m sure Kurt Vonnegut would like a piece. Take him a square of your number one cornbread. Congratulations, Dot. You deserve it.”

“On my way.” Dottie picked up the platter and went back into the bar.

Julia leaned across the worktable. “There was no cream corn in your original recipe, was there?”

“Nope.”

“You wanted her to win.”

“Yep.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“No, Julia. I just didn’t want to hear Dottie carp about being Avis and trying harder for the rest of my eternal life.”

Pat and Julia laughed.

“Buy you a drink?”

“Why Julia Reed, did you hear me talking about cheap writers who never buy a round?”

“I might have, Pat Conroy.”

“So you know about the postcards?”

“What postcards?”

“The ones from heaven.”

“Oh, those,” Julia said and smiled. “You mean I have to write in this realm?”

“Yep. But here’s the good news.”

“I’m waiting,” Julia said.

“No deadlines.”

To: KSM

From: Julia

Listen here, baby sister friend, I don’t have any idea how much, or if any of this will get through, but eventually you will know it’s me, reaching out. I’m here. I made it. I’m on the other side. It is really pretty doggone fabulous here, even though I was skeptical at first, of course, because that’s just the way I am about anything that supposedly is built to last, including eternity. I had gotten to the place in my life where I wanted peace, and peace I got, with no concept of time. When I looked back over my life, the only time I ever cared about were those minutes between dressing up and waiting for the company to arrive.

Sometimes I see shimmers of things. Shiny stamps. Or the red circle on a packing box from the mail machine over at The Reed Smythe Company. I miss our elegant little endeavor, but not because of the tables, glassware, and bits and bobs we sold. I miss hunting down the treasures we would sell and wondering if anyone else in the world would see the beauty in a medieval shaving cup. The shop was just another excuse to hang out, spend time together and laugh.

Sometimes I hear things. Your children. My mother’s voice. My father’s laugh. Don’t look for me in sound. I never could sing very well and speaking from the great beyond always ends up sounding like Margaret Rutherford ordering a pizza during the reign of Queen Victoria.

To that end—

I will leave you messages in things. Okay, specifically books. If you pick up Dorothy Draper’s Decorating Is Fun, I have underlined a few good passages which I believe are essential to decoration and entertaining. Not that you need it. Not that you’d believe it. You are no more likely to wallpaper a room on your own than you are to give yourself a haircut. You’re a joy, all sunshine, promise and belief, which is what I loved about you. You could even be practical occasionally, which I never could be, not even once.

You may recall a few years back when I left that rental car on the side of the road with the keys in it when I was on book tour. I was in Tennessee, not Nashville. Knoxville. I did a charity gig there under a tent. It’s all coming back to me. There was an auction of interesting items. Mint julep cups, rattan suitcases, and a painting of the United States flag on a handbag. I didn’t buy anything. I did my speech and encouraged the women under the tent to buy up all the stuff on the tables.

The event was over. It turned dark and I was driving to the airport when the rental car filled with smoke. I couldn’t get the heater to turn off, so I jumped out because I was afraid the dang car would combust with me in it. I walked away from the smoldering car. I thumbed a ride to the airport lickety-split and the driver turned out to be a lovely man who got his start in coal, then